Friends Indeed
by PrairieLily
Summary: When Ducky finds himself in a predicament, the entire team goes above and beyond to help him. No pairings, chapters 8 of 8 COMPLETE. MANY THANKS to Tweeter for some inspirations, and permission to use them! Note I modified the rating.
1. Problems and Solutions

**Title: Friends Indeed**

**Rating:** Probably a T. Maybe not. I'll be safe though.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters. No infringement intended.

**Summary:** When Ducky finds himself in a predicament, the team goes above and beyond to help him.

**Author's note:** I would like to thank **Tweeter** for generously allowing me to use a couple of her ideas, which she originally published in her story, "Monday Night at the Mallards." Her delightful story can be found here by searching her profile and clicking on the link.

* * *

As it happened, most of the team was in autopsy, having a post-mortem translated into layman's terms by Ducky and Jimmy, when the call came in.

Jimmy had an idea what the call was about, by watching Dr. Mallard's face contort from panic to frustration to tired resolve.

"But Judith, please… you know Mother suffers from dementia… yes, yes, I know… oh, no, please, do not quit on me now… well, yes, I understand that, of course, but…"

At this point, the team was exchanging wordless communication, glancing regretfully at one another. They watched as Jimmy sat down on a stool and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and deliberately. The young morgue assistant reached up and pulled off his cap, running his hand through his loose dark curls, resting his face in his hand. He winced slightly, as his face took on a pained expression born of experience and resignation - this was a party that Jimmy Palmer had been to a few too many times already, and he hated it every single time, because the Hostess had a way of driving away her guests with alarming regularity and efficiency.

When Ducky had hung up the phone, he turned to the team first. "Well, I suppose that settles that. You are all clear on our victim's cause of death, are you not?"

Ziva glanced at Gibbs, who in turn looked briefly to McGee and Tony. The four agents nodded in unison. "I think we've got it, Duck," Gibbs said, speaking for his team.

"Excellent," he said. He then turned to Jimmy.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave work early, Mr. Palmer. Can you handle things here from this point on?"

Jimmy looked up with such a regretful look of sympathy in his green eyes, that not even the round lenses of his glasses could hide it from the older man. "Yes, Doctor. I can take it from here. I gather another home care nurse quit on you?"

Ducky sighed and nodded. "Yes, Jimmy. She wouldn't even stay to finish out her shift, or allow me to finish out mine, here. I swear, Mother becomes more and more difficult to manage with each passing month. I just don't know what to do anymore. She's driven away every single nurse I've hired. It's becoming increasingly difficult to find someone to care for her during the day."

Jimmy nodded, and exchanged a look with Gibbs and the others. "Don't worry about things here, Sir. You go on home, take care of your Mother. This isn't exactly my first rodeo, either." Jimmy smiled warmly, trying to reassure his mentor that he wasn't a child who needed supervision.

Unlike, it would seem, his mother.

When Ducky had briefed Jimmy on what was left to be done, bid goodbye to everyone, and they'd all left the lab, Jimmy sat down a moment, thinking. A thought did occur to him, but he rejected it almost immediately. There were only so many things you could ask people to do, even if they had come to feel like an extended family of sorts. Anyway, he usually felt that he was squarely at the bottom of the food chain around here. Who the hell would go along with this, especially if it was brought forward by a lowly morgue assistant.

Well, on the other hand… maybe it really did bear consideration. It might be too much to ask… but it was worth a shot, at least. Besides, he didn't know what else to do at this point. He knew Gibbs would probably be agreeable – he and Dr. Mallard were old friends from a few years back already. McGee would probably do it, too, because that was just the kind of compassionate and loyal man he was. Abby would do it because she had a huge heart of gold, and Ziva had a way of surprising them now and then, by showing an alarming amount of compassion – something that they weren't accustomed to seeing very often, hidden behind her tough-girl Mossad officer exterior.

Tony… well, if worse came to worse, he might be able to dig up something to blackmail Tony into it. But, he figured, with enough convincing, and maybe a few trips down Guilt Boulevard… he was sure that Tony could be convinced, one way or another.

Of course, it was only fair that he take his turn, as well.

But, he got along fine with Dr. Mallard's mother – so much so, that the old woman had somehow gotten it into her head that he was her grandson. He could hardly believe it himself, but he had taken to calling her "Grandmother," for the sole purpose of avoiding the futile and frustrating task of having to explain to her that he wasn't actually her dear boy Donald's son, every single time they were in each other's company.

Anyway, he had figured at the time, if it did an old woman's heart good to think that her only child - who had in fact, never married and had his own family - had given her a grandson… it really wasn't that big of a sacrifice.

"Well, I suppose that's it then," he said quietly to himself. He took a deep breath, and let it out in a rush of resolve, then he stood and set himself to the task of wrapping things up in autopsy for the day.

……………………………………………………………………………

Gibbs almost ran into Jimmy, as the younger man exited the elevator.

"Oh! Agent Gibbs… I'm sorry…" he hastily apologized, stammering in a nervous torrent. He'd finally built up enough courage to come to the squad room, round everyone up, and throw this crazy idea into the wind… hoping that they'd all reach up and grab onto it. But bowling into Gibbs, who scared the hell out of him on a good day, had shaken his nerves somewhat.

Gibbs stood, patiently staring at him, his blue eyes turned slightly upwards at the barely taller young man, as a rush of thought made its way through Jimmy's mind. "Suck it up, Palmer," he told himself. "Just remember, it's for Dr. Mallard. Anything to help Dr. Mallard. Even this."

"Uh," Jimmy said, pushing his hesitation aside, "Agent Gibbs, do you have a moment?" Gibbs took on a thoughtful look, glanced at his watch, then nodded. "Sure, Jimmy. What's on your mind?"

"If you would be so kind as to…" Jimmy said, gesturing the team leader to return to the squad room. Gibbs said nothing, only giving him the tiniest of enigmatic smiles, and obliging the nervous young man without question or argument. Jimmy was delighted and relieved to see that for some reason, Abby was in the squad room as well, standing by McGee's desk, chatting with him about some thing or another. Now, he could kill two birds with one stone – and not have to find the courage to do this twice in one day.

When the two men walked back into the team's little section of the squad room, Jimmy waved the others over. When they'd circled him, each with their own expression of curiosity, he took another deep breath, sucked it up, and let fly with his plan.

…………………………………………………………………………

"I can't believe I just agreed to that," Tony said in disbelief, almost to himself. "How the hell did Palmer talk me into that, anyway?"

"He appealed to your compassion, Tony," McGee said lightly. He grinned sweetly as Tony looked up at him, eyebrow raised.

"He gave you a puppy-dog look, reminded you that this whole thing was solely for Ducky, and made you feel like a heel if you refused to join us." Gibbs fired another sweet grin in Tony's direction.

"Damn, I gotta learn me how to do that," Tony muttered to himself.

……………………………………………………………………………

"Mr. Palmer… are you absolutely sure about this?"

Ducky could hardly believe his ears. Here, his young assistant had come up with a plan to help him and his mother, while buying time for him to find yet another home care nurse, to tend to his mother during the day.

Jimmy nodded. "Absolutely, Sir. Everyone agreed to it. Even Tony." Jimmy gave the old Doctor a cheeky grin of triumph.

Ducky didn't know what Jimmy had done to convince Tony to do this, and frankly, in retrospect, the older man really wasn't sure that he wanted to know, either. "Jimmy, I don't know what to say… thank you, my dear boy. Mother will be delighted… she is so very fond of you, you know." Ducky smiled, tired, but happy, and relieved, and more than a little overwhelmed by the gesture.

He lived with his mother, day in, day out, and for as much as he loved her, the few hours that he had to spend with her taxed his patience on most days. That the entire team was willing to do this, when in truth, they really didn't have to – nearly brought him to tears.

"Tim will be here in the morning. Gibbs gave him leave from the office tomorrow. He can have his laptop here and work from your house. Abby tells me he's an excellent cook, too. I'm sure things will work out fine with them." Ducky nodded at this.

"You know, Jimmy, you really could have told me this tomorrow," Ducky said suddenly. Jimmy shrugged. "It's kinda my turn, Sir. The idea was, I take the first shift, since we're all caught up in autopsy. So today you can go in to the Navy Yard and catch up on your paperwork, I left some reports ready for you to review and sign off on. I'll stay here and look after Mrs. Mallard. Tonight when you get home, dinner will be ready. We'll eat, I'll clean up, and then I can go. Tim will be here in the morning to take over. Tony takes the next day, because it falls on the weekend, then the rotation gets a little loose… but it'll all work out."


	2. Jimmy's Day

**Chapter 2 – Jimmy's Day**

Vanessa Mallard looked up as her "grandson" walked into the room.

"Jimmy!" she cried, bringing her hands up in delight.

"Hello, Grandmother," Jimmy said, smiling warmly. It had taken some getting used to, calling her that… but it wasn't really all that bad. He had lost both of his own grandmothers in recent years, so Mrs. Mallard had managed, in her own eccentric sort of way, to fill the void that their deaths had left. He walked over to the old woman and embraced her affectionately, as she held her arms out to him, and kissed her lightly on the cheek, much to the old woman's delight.

"Tell me, has Donald been working you too hard at that autopsy place? You look peaked, Dear Boy." Mrs. Mallard gazed at Jimmy with a look of concern, one that told him that if he said the wrong thing, she'd roll her son's head into the next room when he got home that evening.

"Oh, of course not! I love working at NCIS. I get to help Dr. Mallard solve mysteries. It's really very satisfying."

"Oh, well, that's wonderful, Jimmy. It's delightful for me to know that my dear son and his dear son work together so closely. It maintains the bonds of family. One can never take such things for granted in this dreadful day and age."

Jimmy thought a moment, gazing at her and smiling. "Of course not, Grandmother. I really should go start dinner now. What would you like tonight?"

"Gin and tonic, my boy!" The old woman didn't hesitate for a moment. Her wrinkled face lit up and she fairly bounced in her chair with excitement.

Jimmy coughed back a snort of amusement. "Well, yes… I can fix you a small one. But what would you like to eat? I think there may be time for a pot roast, if you'd like." Mrs. Mallard reached out and took his hand. "Why yes, that sounds marvellous! Oh, whatever you fix will be fine, Jimmy. Your father has taught you well, how to cook a proper English supper."

……………………………………………………………………………

"Contessa, if you don't stop that whining I'll toss you out the door and wish you luck," Jimmy hissed, as he stood in the kitchen, carving the roast and preparing it for the table. "That goes double for you, Tyson," he said, turning and waving a knife-wielding hand at the other dog, who sat whimpering, and licking his chops with eager anticipation. The two Welsh Corgis gazed up at him with adoring eyes, then settled down, gazing adoringly up at this vaguely familiar human who was suddenly standing in their kitchen.

Jimmy nearly sliced off his fingertip when an earth-shattering crash brought his heart into his throat. He dropped the knife on the counter, then spun around… then promptly turned back and glared at the two dogs. "Don't even _think_ about it," he warned, then dashed into the parlour.

"It was cheaply made, anyway," Mrs. Mallard huffed, as he entered the room.

There, on the floor, was one of the priceless vases that he knew Dr. Mallard had brought back with him from Asia, decades before. He couldn't remember when, exactly, it had come into his possession – but Jimmy knew that Dr. Mallard's ownership of this particular item preceded his existence by several years, at least.

"Grandmother, what happened?" he asked in dismay. He stood, staring helplessly at the once valuable vase, now reduced to so much worthless baked clay and paint.

"That dreadfully gaudy vase slipped from my hands when I went to remove the dead flowers from the arrangement," she said simply. She seemed unconcerned about the demise of the artefact. "Well, be a dear, will you Jimmy, and fetch a broom to sweep up the shards."

Jimmy sat down, feeling faint. He tried to remember just how old Dr. Mallard had told him that vase was – it was older than him, and Dr. Mallard combined – and maybe even throwing Mrs. Mallard in for good measure, as well… that was all he knew for sure. "Well, no worries, Grandmother. What's done is done," he said, more for his own benefit than anything else. "Don't move, okay? Here, in fact – maybe you should sit down in your chair," he said, standing up again and gently guiding her back to her seat. "I don't want you to fall on these broken pieces of… priceless antique," he said, his voice becoming a weakened whisper at the final words.

He dashed back into the kitchen, to retrieve the broom and dustpan, just in time to rescue the roast from the two corgis who had their eyes on the tantalizing meat. "OUT," he commanded, opening the doors and giving a gentle shove to their back ends with his foot.

Unfortunately, in opening the doors to put the dogs out, he let Ducky in.

"Oh… you're home early," he stammered.

"Dinner smells wonderful, Mr. Palmer. Pot roast, I see. Ah… it's been ages since I had a good pot roast. And I know for a fact that yours is especially delicious." The old Doctor gazed at the meal with unabashed anticipation. "Shall I set the table for you then?" Jimmy nodded, and Ducky was about to take care of this small task when he heard his mother calling.

"Donald!" Mrs. Mallard's shrill voice called from the living room. Ducky sighed. "I trust everything went well today, Jimmy?"

Jimmy almost reassured him, "Smooth as silk, Sir," but then remembered the shattered remains of the vase. "Well, Sir, there was a bit of an incident with that vase of flowers on the stand next to the armoire…"

"Incident, Mr. Palmer?" Ducky asked, levelly.

"Um… yeah. It's kind've… um…"

"It was dreadfully ugly, Donald, and I'm not sorry it's gone."

Jimmy's eyes grew wide, and he rushed to the elderly woman's side. "Mrs. Mallard… I mean, Grandmother… I thought I asked you to stay in your chair? You could have fallen and seriously hurt yourself on that broken pottery." Mrs. Mallard pooh-poohed him, patting his arm. "Nonsense, Boy. There is nothing wrong with my balance or my footing."

"What happened to the vase, Jimmy?" Ducky persisted. Jimmy winced as Ducky went into the living room to survey the damage.

"Oh, that old thing," he called out. "That old vase was worthless, Mr. Palmer. No worries, my good fellow. That particular vase was a replica, given to me by my eccentric Great Uncle Duncan. He was an odd man, used to tell pointless drawn out stories to anyone who would listen, at the drop of a hat. He really was something of the black sheep of the family. Anyway, that vase held neither sentimental value, nor monetary value."

"But… I thought you said that vase was a priceless artefact from Asia?" Jimmy asked, perplexed. Ducky returned to the kitchen, patting Jimmy's arm as he gently led his mother to the table. "No, Mr. Palmer. The vase you are referring to is in the library, not the parlour. Now, I suggest we eat. I'm absolutely famished."


	3. Tim's Day

**Chapter 3 – Tim's Day**

Timothy McGee stood outside of Ducky's front door.

He thought a moment, gathering his courage and his resolve, then reached up and rang the doorbell.

"Who goes there?" a shrill voice called from inside.

"Mrs. Mallard, it's Timothy McGee. I work with your son at NCIS. I'm here to uh… to spend the day with you, in case you need anything."

Tim stood back suddenly as the door swung open abruptly. Vanessa Mallard stood, with all of her dignity and polished proper Englishwoman's refinement firmly intact, glaring at him with a suspicious eye.

"McGee. You are Irish. An Irish drunkard, I'm sure!" she accused. Tim blinked a few times, not sure how to respond, and not sure if it mattered to tell her that he only drank alcohol occasionally.

"Ma'am, I assure you, I'm not drunk. In fact, I haven't had a drink in weeks. I'm as sober as the day I was born." He felt confident telling her this, if she were watching his face for signs of deception. He hadn't, in all honesty, had a drink since Tony's birthday party, several weeks prior.

"Indeed," she huffed, and finally, after what seemed an eternity, she stepped aside, to allow him passage inside.

Tim sighed to himself. If he didn't respect Palmer before, knowing he'd done his time here yesterday had just earned Jimmy a whole new pile of respect from him now. On the other hand, this whole thing was Palmer's idea in the first place. But no… that wasn't fair, either. Jimmy only had Ducky in mind when he suggested this to the team. Jimmy was, in fact, the very first one to step up to the plate, and take one for the team.

"Where is Jimmy?" she demanded, suddenly. "My grandson was here yesterday. Why is he not here today?"

This took Tim by surprise, and he stopped a moment, a strange expression of confusion on his face. "Your grandson, Mrs. Mallard?"

"Yes, my grandson. Jimmy. I thought you said that you work with him and my son at… where is it you work, Mr. … what did you say your name was again?"

Tim cleared his throat, and bowed slightly, as he thought a gentleman should. "You may call me Timothy, Ma'am. And yes, I do work with your… uh… grandson, at NCIS. That's the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"Don't patronize me, young man. I know what NCIS stands for. My dear son Donald has worked there for years."

"Of course, Ma'am. I didn't mean to imply that you didn't know what it stands for." He stepped out of his shoes, and took Mrs. Mallard gently by the arm, to lead her to her chair.

"Would you like some tea, Ma'am?" he asked sweetly, as he led her away from the door. The elderly woman looked up at him and smiled. "Why yes, Timothy. A-ha!" she said triumphantly, pointing an arthritic finger in the air and her face lighting up. "See, I DO remember your name. It's a lovely name, too. Ah, yes. Tea. That would be lovely, Timothy." He led her carefully to the chair, sitting her down and draping her blanket across her lap. "Will we be having crumpets as well?" she asked, hopefully. Tim paused a moment. "I'll have to check the cupboards. I think Jimmy said there were some scones left from yesterday, that he baked fresh, if you'd like that?"

Mrs. Mallard smiled contentedly. "Yes, that would be wonderful, dear Timothy. But I should warn you, I have hidden the keys to the liquor cabinet, so don't get any fancy ideas about snitching a pint or two of Donald's ale."

"I wouldn't think of it, Ma'am," he promised, as he thought to himself that it was going to be a very, very long day, indeed.

……………………………………………………………………………

By the time Ducky returned from work, Mrs. Mallard was fast asleep in her chair, tucked in carefully, a crumb filled saucer sitting next to her empty teacup. Tim looked up from his laptop as the older man walked in, and he whispered to him, "Dinner is almost on the table. I roasted a duck."

"Very funny, Timothy," Ducky retorted. "A mallard duck, I presume?" He raised an eyebrow at the laughing expression of Jethro's junior agent. "I don't know what it is, besides tasty, Ducky. It should be ready to carve in a few minutes, I just took it out of the oven."

"Well, it does smell wonderful," he said, resting a hand on his middle as his stomach grumbled. "You would think that working amongst the dead all day would temper one's appetite considerably. I suppose one gets used to it, though."

"Donald, is that you?" a tired, sleep-slurred voice asked.

"Yes, Mother. I'm home now. Did you have a good day with Timothy?

"He's not a drunk, after all, Donald. For shame, boy. You said he was Irish."


	4. Tony's Day

**Chapter 4 – Tony's Day**

When Tony arrived at the front door the next day, he winced at the memories of the last time he'd watched over Ducky's mother.

He hoped the elderly woman didn't remember him and think he was an Italian Gigolo Furniture Mover/Dog Groomer. He'd had quite enough of Contessa's growling bitchy demeanour – an appropriate description, he thought – trying to bit the hand that groomed her, and Tony swore that if he had to move a table or an armoire, he'd walk out and tell Palmer it was _his_ turn again.

"Mrs. Mallard? It's Anthony DiNozzo. Remember me, Ma'am?"

The door swung open, and Mrs. Mallard stood, with the same dignity and posture as she'd demonstrated in front of Tim, the day before.

"You are Italian," she noted, with a huffy sniff. "An Italian Gigolo!"

Tony sighed. He'd been sure that Ducky said his mother suffered from dementia. Or maybe, it was just everyone around her who suffered from her dementia.

"No, Ma'am. I work with your son, at NCIS. That stands for Naval Criminal Inves…"

"Do not patronize me, boy! Why do you young men all seem to think that I don't know what NCIS stands for? My son and grandson have worked there for years. And Timothy works there too," she said, with an air of authority. "Donald lied to me. Timothy is not, in fact, a drunkard."

Tony shook his head. He wasn't even going to TRY to figure out what she meant by all of this.

McGee, a drunk? Not hardly. But her grandson? Ducky didn't have any kids, as far as he knew… Oh, no - wait. Could she be talking about Jimmy? Oh, yes. That was right, too. Jimmy had once mentioned how he called Dr. Mallard's mother "Grandmother" to avoid confusing the old woman, who had somehow gotten the idea into her confused mind that Jimmy Palmer was her grandson.

"I don't suppose you still have your… oh, never mind. I see they're still here." Tony stood stock-still, as Tyson, the biter, sniffed around his feet and growled quietly. Finally, the small dog approved of his arrival, and went off to harass a rawhide bone that Tim had brought the day before, to occupy the yappy creatures that Ducky seemed to barely tolerate. It had worked for him, too – Tim had tossed the bones into the middle of the back yard, and hadn't seen hide nor hair of them, until Ducky arrived home and they whined and scratched at the back door, wanting to be let back inside.

Tony figured, he couldn't be that lucky.

"Look what I brought, Mrs. Mallard," Tony said, tired of standing in the doorway. He held up a grocery bag, and reached inside, to pull out a package of digestive biscuits. "I thought they'd be good with your tea this afternoon."

"What do Italians know about making tea? At least that Irish boy knows how to make a good, decent cup. Although he did not put rum in it, like I would have preferred. But I suppose, I did lock the cabinet to keep him out."

Tony smiled in spite of himself, at the air of dignity that this old woman so clearly possessed. It was no wonder that Ducky was so devoted to her – she was a strong woman, in spirit, if no longer in body. "I'm sure Tim knows how to make a very good cup of tea, Mrs. Mallard. But you haven't given mine a chance yet, either. You forget, I've also worked with your son for years. You pick up a few things, working with someone for that long."

"We shall see about that, Anthony," she said, stepping aside, and grasping his offered arm.

"You may be a gigolo, but you have very nice buttocks," she said, grasping his left butt cheek and giving it as solid a squeeze as her arthritis-weakened hand could muster. Tony nearly yelped in surprise, but quickly regained his composure. "Really Mrs. Mallard, I promise you, I'm not a gigolo. But I have to agree with you, in all modesty, about my buttocks." He winked at the older woman, as her eyes lit up in cheeky delight. "I may be old, Anthony, but I am not dead."

Tony grinned to himself. So far, so good. Maybe this day wouldn't be so long after all.


	5. Abby's Day

**Chapter 5 – Abby's Day**

"Abigail," Ducky greeted Abby, as she arrived at the front door the next day. The Goth forensics expert stood in front of the open door, dressed in her usual Sunday best – black, dress, gloves, and parasol – with her hair done up in two little knots, on either side of her head.

"Mother is resting in her chair right now. There is leftover pizza in the refrigerator. Anthony ordered it last night. It gave Mother indigestion but she did enjoy it nonetheless. Nothing a little Maalox doesn't cure."

"I'm sure we'll get along just fine, Duckman," Abby said, smiling sweetly.

"Oh, Abigail, I should warn you… Mother can be a little bit… difficult at times." Ducky sounded regretful. "Apparently, she's already accused Timothy of being a raging alcoholic, and Anthony of being a shameless gigolo. Please be understanding of her, and please don't take offence if she says something outrageous to you."

Abby smiled warmly, and reached out to rest a hand on Ducky's shoulder. "Don't worry, Ducky. I'm sure we'll be fine. Tim taught me how to make this fabulous crockpot dish. I'll get it going, and Mrs. Mallard and I can spend the afternoon girl-talking."

"Yes, well," Ducky said with a small shrug. "Whatever your plans are for the day, I do wish you luck." He turned to leave, then stopped, turning around. "Oh, yes. I knew I was forgetting something… Jimmy told me that if you have any problems, he'll be home today, so you can just call him. But I'm sure the situation will be well in hand."

……………………………………………………………………………

Abby was frantically punching numbers on her cell phone, desperately trying to remember Jimmy's private cell number.

Mrs. Mallard had taken one look at her, and begun screaming bloody murder.

"A vampire! A vampire! You will suck my blood dry! Get away from me… I have garlic!"

Abby had no idea how to react to this, and for as brave and unshakable as she usually was, even she felt a chill of fear when the elderly woman informed her that she had a wooden dagger hidden in her garter.

The old woman had hidden herself behind the big chair that she usually occupied, and cowered behind it, clutching the back of it and peering over the back at Abby with terrified eyes and a locked and loaded blood curdling scream, ready to let fly at the least little provocation.

Abby's fear from this adverse reaction to her presence wasn't so much that Mrs. Mallard could do her actual harm – but that she'd work herself into such a dither that she'd become gravely ill. Ducky would kill her if she did that, and Abby knew she'd never be able to forgive herself if anything happened to his mother.

"Mrs. Mallard, I'm not a vampire, I swear it! See?" Abby rushed over to the window, throwing open the draperies to let the sunshine flood into the room. "See, Mrs. Mallard? If I were a vampire I'd be dead now. And I love garlic! Really!"

But the old woman refused to budge.

Finally, Jimmy picked up, and Abby nearly wept with relief. She tossed her phone over on the chair, and watched desperately as the terrified old woman reached warily over, never taking her eyes off of Abby, and picked it up, bringing it to her ear.

"_Grandmother, that's just Abby Sciuto. She works with me at NCIS. She's not a vampire, I swear it_," he'd tried to soothe. "_She's there to look after you today, and keep you company. I promise she isn't there to drain your blood._"

"How do you know that, Jimmy?" the old woman pleaded, still clearly terrified.

"_Well… look at her neck, Grandmother. She came from church, so she's probably wearing a crucifix, right?_" Jimmy didn't know that for sure, but prayed for everyone's sake, that Abby was wearing one. He waited a few tense moments, and then Abby came back on the line.

"She's calmed down now, Jimmy. Thank you so much," Abby said, the relief in her husky voice clearly evident. "I don't know what you said to her, but she came right up to me and looked down the front of my dress. My crucifix had fallen between my hooters, so I guess she was looking for that."

"_Good_," Jimmy sighed, smiling to himself, and quite involuntarily thinking, "Lucky crucifix."

"_Well, good luck with the rest of the day. Just call if you have any more problems, okay?_" Abby giggled nervously. "Sure thing, Jims. Thanks again."

When Abby had disconnected the call, she went into the kitchen to pour Mrs. Mallard a stiff drink of whatever was strongest in the liquor cabinet. While she was at it, she pulled the coffee maker out from the back of the counter, rummaged around until she found the filters and the coffee, and made herself a pot so strong that it would have dissolved the silverware.

When she re-entered the living room, Mrs. Mallard sat quietly, clutching at her blanket. "Here you go, Mrs. Mallard," Abby said carefully. The old woman eyed her suspiciously as she put the glass down on the stand next to her chair. Deciding to take a chance, Abby reached out and laid a hand gently on her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "See, I don't bite after all."

"Abigail, you really must learn to dress more appropriately," Mrs. Mallard scolded. "You nearly scared the life out of me, Girl."

Abby smiled.

So, this was the abrasive old woman that everyone had come to fear, in their own way. It would seem she was back to her usual self, so no harm, no foul. She took a big breath of relief, and let it out, smiling warmly at the older woman. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mallard. I didn't know you'd react like that. I'll try to dress better from now on, okay?"

Mrs. Mallard nodded, now fully calmed down, although whether it was by her "grandson's" reassurances, or the stiff dose of bourbon in her glass, Abby wasn't really sure. Actually, Abby didn't really care. All that mattered was, the situation was once again in hand.

But it sure was going to be a long, drawn out day.


	6. Ziva's Day

**Chapter 6 – Ziva's Day**

Ziva David took a deep breath and let it out quickly. She blinked a few times, psyching herself up, and reached out to ring the doorbell.

"_Don't be such a wimp, Ziva," _she told herself_. "You've faced men with machine guns pointed at your head. You've been taken hostage, nearly killed many times. This is just an elderly woman who is probably as weak as a kitten."_

But she thought about the horror stories.

She thought about how Tony had been accused of being… what was that word again? A juggler? That made no sense… why was that so bad? It was an admirable, if somewhat useless skill.

Tim, she had accused of being an alcoholic. Well, Ziva had never seen him drink to excess, so she had no idea where that idea had gotten itself into Mrs. Mallard's head. She truly hoped that Gibbs' junior agent hadn't reacted to his day with Ducky's mother by uncharacteristically numbing himself to the experience with liquor, and earning the label honestly.

Abby had come back with a story of how Ducky's mother had nearly had a stroke at the first sight of her. Ziva smiled at this, seeing how that might have been – given Abby's rather unconventional choice of wardrobe and makeup - but at the same time, thinking to herself that in spite of her outward Gloomy Goth appearance, Abby could hardly bring herself to harm a fly, let alone a helpless old woman – and Mrs. Mallard was not just _any_ helpless old woman, to boot.

Ziva herself was trained in the art of psychological torture. But still… she had a sick feeling, deep down, that she was about to meet her match, and not come out the winner.

"_I'm doing this for Ducky… Damnit, Jimmy, why do you have to be too sweet to say no to. You owe me at least a dozen piano tunings after this – no, make that TWO dozen piano tunings."_

All of these thoughts had raced through Ziva's mind in a matter of a few seconds, just enough time to straighten her clothing - a conservative blouse, after Abby's horror story of how Mrs. Mallard apparently had rather strict ideas of how a lady should dress – basic black slacks, and sensible shoes.

She'd even worn rather conservative "knickers," just in case. Tony had taken a bit too much delight in telling her of Mrs. Mallard's comments to Kate a couple of years ago. "One can always tell a lady's intentions by her panties," he had said to her, with an odd, creaky high pitched tone.

"You've got to be joking," she had replied, in dismay. McGee had merely smiled at her with a sweetly evil grin, that Ziva hadn't known up until that point that Tim was even capable of. "Nope," he'd simply said.

Ziva was abruptly brought back to the present when the door swung open.

"Who are you?" Vanessa Mallard demanded.

"Ziva David, Mrs. Mallard. I'm here to keep you company today." She tried to smile, but then realized that it would most likely appear forced.

"Dah-VEED? What sort of name is that, Girl? Well, speak up!"

Ziva cleared her throat and swallowed nervously. "It's… from overseas, Ma'am. I'm Jewish."

"I hope you can make a decent cup of tea, Miss David," the elderly woman said, as she turned around and shuffled back into the house.

"I think I can manage that," Ziva said to herself, shrugging.

………………………………………………………………………………

"So, young lady, how long have you worked with my son at… where is it he works again?"

Ziva sat across the dining room table from Mrs. Mallard, sipping her tea. "NCIS, Mrs. Mallard. We work at NCIS." she said, watching the elderly woman carefully. They'd had an uneasy time of it ever since Mrs. Mallard had casually mentioned that she carried a knife in her brassiere… and Ziva had, perhaps unwisely, responded that she carried one on her ankle. The look of shock and alarm on Mrs. Mallard's face was enough to make her remain quiet for quite some time, but Ziva knew that the silence wouldn't last. Sooner or later, they would have to communicate.

She glanced up at the clock. Good – it was almost time to start dinner. That would at least give her a chance at some solitude in the kitchen.

Ziva was brought back to reality when Mrs. Mallard cleared her throat, rather conspicuously.

"I've been with the team for less than a year, Ma'am. After Kate Todd died."

"Caitlin died? What happened? My word… she was such a lovely young woman, too. But she wouldn't show me her knickers. One can always tell a lady's intentions by her panties, you know."

Ziva hid her dismay – she'd thought Tony had been joking about that… but in retrospect, McGee hadn't shared "that look" with him when he'd said that – the look that indicated that "the boys" had just shared a little macho joke that the girls wouldn't know quite how to take. In fact, McGee had simply smiled that smile that he used when wordlessly agreeing with one of his fellow males, and raised an eyebrow in amused understanding. Funny, it had seemed a more diabolical smile, at the time.

"Well, Mrs. Mallard… Kate died in the line of duty. I'm sorry – I thought you knew."

In all honesty, Ziva realized that Mrs. Mallard had probably been told shortly after it had happened. But the old woman barely remembered what had happened an hour ago – let alone a year ago.

"Well, no matter. What's done is done. What is for supper… Ziva, you said your name was? What kind of name is that, anyway? You certainly aren't from around here."

Ziva sighed. She had told Mrs. Mallard several times already that she wasn't from America. She glanced up at the clock again. What a predicament… on the one hand, she could waste time in the kitchen like nobody's business… on the other hand, if dinner were too early, it would be cold by the time Ducky arrived home from the Navy Yard.

How long could she really take, within reason, to chop a few vegetables, and pound some chicken breasts?

Well, she'd just have to chance it.

"Mrs. Mallard, would you like to return to your chair in the parlour? I really need to start dinner… I mean, supper, very soon, and I'm sure you would like to have a rest before our meal."

"Are we having baked ham?" Mrs. Mallard asked. Ziva winced. She'd told her at least a dozen times now that she was Jewish.

The Mossad officer arose from her chair, setting her empty cup in the sink. "No, Ma'am. We are not having baked ham. I'm not telling you what we're having. It's a surprise." Ziva winked and smiled, and much to her shock, Vanessa Mallard smiled back, with a mysterious twinkle in her eyes. "I love surprises," she said. "And my grandson tells me that you are a wonderful cook. So do Anthony and Timothy, for that matter. They did rather carry on about it." Ziva smiled warmly, a genuine light shining in her dark eyes. "Really?" she asked. Mrs. Mallard nodded, as she placed her hands on the table to help boost herself out of her seat.

"Indeed, Miss. David. Oh, my, that rhymes. Yes, Abigail raved about it too. I must say, I'm rather looking forward to it."

……………………………………………………………………………

While Ziva chopped vegetables, and prepared chicken for the dish she had planned, she thought about the preceding afternoon, and why it was that she had been so desperate to seek solitude in the kitchen.

The afternoon with Ducky's mother had not gone… well, if any word could be used to describe it, "swimmingly" was not that word.

She had made enough slips with her already shaky grasp of American slang, that Mrs. Mallard was now convinced that she was not only a terrorist assassin – a misconception unfortunately given credibility by Ziva's rather unwise and impulsive remark that she carried a knife on her ankle – but an illiterate foreigner, to boot.

Normally this wouldn't have mattered. Sometimes McGee corrected her, with a small friendly, almost brotherly smile of understanding, and sometimes Tony had the honour. Neither man ever patronized her when she made her little malapropisms. Mrs. Mallard, however, was not so forgiving as Ziva's gentlemen colleagues.

"I am, evidently, only allowed one good day per week. Today is clearly not my day. Tomorrow is probably not looking very promising either," Ziva muttered to herself. She gasped and swore to herself as the knife slipped, and she sliced into her thumb with one of Ducky's razor-sharp chef knives.

"Well, I suppose that was to be expected," she said to herself, not without a hint of self-pity. She stuck her thumb in her mouth instinctively, wincing at the pain that was making her thumb throb painfully, out of all proportion to the actual injury, just as Mrs. Mallard decided to return to the kitchen.

"Not only is that immature, it is highly unsanitary," she said, with a huffy air. Ziva said nothing, not quite trusting herself, removed her thumb from her mouth, and went over to the sink.

Ziva had just had enough. It was the straw that broke the horse's back… Or was that, straight from the camel's mouth… Oh, Hell, who really cared anyway? The point was - enough was enough.

Ziva's head swayed in defiance, and she sighed heavily. "Mrs. Mallard," she said, in her breathy voice of frustration. "I am not an assassin. If I were, I would certainly have found a more legitimate target than an elderly Englishwoman. I assure you, you pose no danger to me. I am not a terrorist, nor am I illiterate. I speak five languages, I'll have you know, and so you will have to forgive me at times if I confuse some of the more obscure Americanisms." She had let loose with her rant in such a display of frustrated passion that Mrs. Mallard had simply stood, staring at her, mouth agape. Then, her weakened old eyes had lit up somewhat, with regard.

"I've always admired a woman with goolies," she said, smiling with triumph.

"A woman with… WHAT?" Ziva gave her a look of pure confusion and near-defeat. She was nearly ready to throw in the towel… it _was_ the "towel," wasn't it? She was hardly sure of her own name anymore. Well – win, lose, or draw, towel it would be for now.

"No worries, my dear girl," Mrs. Mallard had said, shuffling over to the Israeli woman, and grasping her hand. "You need only understand, that you have… what is the word you Jewish would use…? Ah, yes. Chutzpah."

"Chutzpah!" she had repeated, with a burst of cathartic giggle. "Oh, my… Mrs. Mallard," she had said, laughing now, nearly uncontrollably. "Yes, I believe that is the word I might use."

Mrs. Mallard nodded, satisfied. "I will be in the parlour," she informed. "Donald shall be home soon. I look forward to your meal. I only hope it lives up to my grandson's pot roast. Timothy's roast duck was rather delicious, as well. His mashed potatoes didn't have enough butter, but otherwise, it was a very good meal…"

Ziva sighed and smiled. Clearly, Ducky came by his propensity for digression honestly…

Well, she could only hope that she would be using enough butter in the chicken Kiev. God help them all if she didn't.


	7. Gibbs' Day

**Chapter 7 – Gibbs' Day**

"A shameless gigolo, a raving alcoholic, an illiterate foreign assassin, and a vampire?"

Gibbs was glad he wasn't swallowing a mouthful of coffee when Ducky had filled him in on how the last several days had gone for the team.

"Well, it's good to know what I'm up against," he'd said, an amused gleam in his crystal blue eyes.

"God only knows what she'll think of you, Jethro," Ducky said, smiling slightly. In truth, Ducky knew that Jimmy was sorry that he hadn't been available to care for his mother these past few days. It might have spared their friends and colleagues a great deal of frustration and trauma. But, what was done, was done. They all still _seemed _to still be speaking to him, at least.

"She doesn't know how many times I've been married, does she?" Gibbs had finally managed to calm his chuckling fit.

"Oh, if she does, it wasn't me who told her Jethro," Ducky said, shuddering at the thought. "Anyway, the good news is, I will be doing the final interviews today. Hopefully by quitting time, I'll have a replacement for Judith."

"Well, that's a relief, Duck. I don't know how much more juggling I can do with the shift schedule. We're pushing the Director's limits as it is."

"Yes, well, hopefully it'll all be over soon. I can let Jimmy out early, if it would help. He can care for Mother for the rest of the day then."

………………………………………………………………………………

"Hmmm," Tony pondered, as he licked the spoon from his take-out dish of ice cream.

"Maybe we could sic the Director on her next." He couldn't quite stop a diabolical little giggle from escaping his throat. McGee looked up from his own cup of ice cream, and pointed the spoon at his colleague as he waved it in the air towards him, emphasizing his words.

"Tony, that's just wrong. We can't do that to a helpless old woman." He dunked the spoon back into his ice cream and shovelled out a mouthful, popping it in his mouth as he waited for a reaction.

"Come on, Probie, Ducky's mother is hardly helpless," Tony said, rolling his eyes. McGee waited for DiNozzo's eyes to re-orient themselves in their sockets, before saying, and not without some amount of mischief, "Who says I was talking about Mrs. Mallard?" He raised an eyebrow and gave Tony a crookedly wicked grin.

Tony choked on his ice cream, then looked over and grinned. "I'm impressed, Timmy. There's hope for you yet. Okay, seriously… we've all done our time at Ducky's house, except for Gibbs. I'm not sure he'll want to take time out of a weekday to look after Mrs. Mallard, even if it's for Ducky. He's got a job to do here."

"I will be taking my turn, DiNozzo, just like the rest of you have. We don't have any pressing cases right now, and I can work from Ducky's house, just like Tim did on Friday," Gibbs said, as he breezed into the squad room. He stopped at his desk, dropping his phone on the slightly cluttered desktop. He flipped the back of his jacket, and sat down, wiggling the mouse on his computer to rouse the machine from its slumber.

Tony and McGee exchanged looks, one that said, "Should we tell him about her… eccentricities?"

The look, oddly enough, was lost on Gibbs, as he quickly made short work of the new messages in his inbox. When he again stood up, he picked up his phone, reached into his desk drawer to retrieve his weapon, and headed to the elevator. "You know where to find me if you need me," he said, smiling at them as the doors closed on him.

"Is it just me, or do you also feel like a lamb was just sent off to slaughter?" McGee said, almost regretfully. "I mean, Gibbs is hardly helpless… but Ducky's mother would put the fear of God into God Himself." Tony remained silent, nodding as he sighed in agreement. Both men shuddered slightly at the thought.

………………………………………………………………………………

Jethro Gibbs straightened his jacket and cleared his throat as he prepared himself for battle.

He reached out and pushed the doorbell, waiting patiently for the summons to enter. He only needed to wait a few moments, when the door swung open.

"Who are you?" Vanessa Mallard said, her usual air of stiff dignity hovering about her like a proudly worn shroud.

"Jethro Gibbs, Ma'am. I'm here to keep you company today." Gibbs smiled his most charming smile.

"Gibbs… Jethro Gibbs. Sounds vaguely familiar. Do you know my son, Donald?" Mrs. Mallard questioned, without making any motion to welcome him into the house. Gibbs nodded cordially, and said, "Yes, Ma'am. I work with your son at NCIS. May I come in, Ma'am?" he finally asked.

"Very well," she said, moving aside. "Are you armed, young man?"

Gibbs almost looked around himself, wondering who she was talking to. He rolled his eyes at himself when he realized that the elderly woman was referring to _him_.

"Yes, Ma'am. It's just out-of-office protocol. On-duty Agents in the field have to be armed. It's just standard procedure."

Mrs. Mallard led the way to the kitchen, informing him along the way of the now infamous hidden "knife-in-the-brassiere." Gibbs smiled inwardly – remembering Ziva's story of how she'd unwisely countered Mrs. Mallard's threat by informing her that she, herself, was armed with a hidden weapon.

"Of course, Ma'am. It's understandable. A lady has to protect herself in this day and age."

"Who did you say you were, again? You have an air about you. Of coffee." Gibbs blushed, quite uncharacteristically. "Well, Ma'am… I do like a cup of coffee now and then."

Gibbs backed up suddenly as the old woman turned suddenly.

"Jethro. Yes, I remember now. You are the one who has been married multiple times. Well, don't be looking to me for your next conquest. I have no interest in marriage, since my husband passed away. I am impervious to smarm. You will be doing yourself a great service to remember that."

Gibbs was glad at that very moment, very glad in fact, that he hadn't been trying to swallow a mouthful of brew at the time of that comment. He was sure he would have choked on it and spit it up, all over Mrs. Mallard's ivory satin blouse.

"I wouldn't think of it, Mrs. Mallard," he said, most sincerely. He thought to himself, that if it weren't for the fact that Jimmy had only been thinking of Ducky at the time, he'd love to have the young pup's ass to nail to the wall right now. But of course, Jimmy had been the very first one to take his turn, and you didn't turn on a soldier who had suggested a very effective battle plan, and then had been the very first one to put himself directly in the line of fire.

And really, it was only one day. How bad could it get?

……………………………………………………………………………

Gibbs sat down carefully in Ducky's easy chair, and began clicking the keys on his laptop as quietly as possible. He dearly hoped he'd be able to go the remainder of the afternoon without doing something to it that would make him lose his temper, and try to "reboot" it – with a real boot.

That would wake Mrs. Mallard up.

He had spent most of the day fielding questions and defending himself, which, in retrospect, he found himself scolding himself over being so easily dominated by an elderly woman.

Granted, Vanessa Mallard was a particularly formidable elderly woman. But still – an elderly woman she was, nonetheless. He was grateful now that he'd had the sense to keep that rather inflammatory thought to himself.

No, he wasn't a gold-digging former marine. In fact, his collective alimonies kept him in a pretty modest lifestyle. Mrs. Mallard had given him a once-over then, scrutinizing his wardrobe with the eye of a refined, style-conscious woman, and with a slightly raised eyebrow, conceded that he most certainly did lead a modest lifestyle.

No, he wasn't a substance abuser. True, he did drink his fair share of coffee, but that was nothing compared to the gallons of Caf-Pow that Abby managed to put away every single day. All he drank was coffee. Delicious, steamy, black, aromatic, tantalizing… no, he definitely didn't have a problem. He could quit anytime. He just didn't have time to. End of story, Mrs. Mallard, now can we please talk about something relevant?

No, he was not crazy. Granted, yes, he was building a boat in his basement. No, he didn't know at this point how he'd be getting it out of his basement. He thought he'd consider that once the project was closer to completion. True, he had to agree, it did seem a bit ludicrous, but lots of people had hobbies. This was something that allowed him to use his hands and create something with them. Okay, so maybe it was a bit big… it wasn't exactly a ship in a bottle.

Okay, so admittedly… maybe it _was_ kind've like a ship in a bottle. But who ever thought of taking the ship out of the bottle? That would completely defeat the point. Well, granted, yes, he would like to actually _launch_ the boat someday. Which would, of course, necessitate removing the said ship from the said bottle… and Mrs. Mallard, I really should get into the kitchen and think about starting dinner…

And so it was, that Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Gunnery Sergeant (retired), United States Marine Corps, had desperately taken refuge in the kitchen, peering fearfully now and then into the living room – or "parlour," as Mrs. Mallard insisted on calling it, to ensure that she was still, indeed, in deep slumber in her chair.

It was a simple dish, one that Ziva had shown him how to make. She'd gotten the recipe from Abby, who'd learned how to make it from McGee, who had gotten it from his sister, who had learned how to make it – or rather, how _not_ to make it – in home economics class.

It had undergone modifications through its passage through the many hands that had previously prepared it. But nothing major… okay, so Ziva had said that McGee's sister had marvelled at it, and asked for the recipe, one time when she and Abby had met the youngest McGee for dinner, and a day of chick bonding.

In any case, here was Jethro Gibbs, not exactly a Domestic God – his cookbooks at home consisted of nothing more than a list of phone numbers to his favourite take-out places… but he was trying. He just wished there was a way to do what he had to do without sounding like he was attacking the kitchen cupboards with a wrecking bar.

When he'd finally gotten the dish into the oven, he sneaked stealthily to the passageway, peering in carefully. He needn't have bothered – the resounding snore that emanated from Mrs. Mallard sounded only vaguely like an asthmatic bull moose. He snuck back into the living room, carefully settling down, wincing as the springs in the old, comfortable chair squeaked loudly.

He opened the lid of the laptop, watching Mrs. Mallard carefully for signs of wakefulness, and tried to get to work without disturbing her. He started typing, carefully tapping the keys with as light a touch as he could manage.

Unfortunately, he had set the kitchen timer, which had an unusually loud and obnoxious ring – for 5 minutes, instead of 50.

This, unfortunately, resulted in him jumping in surprise, his heart in his throat and his computer taking a tumble off of his lap, Mrs. Mallard waking up with a start and a shriek, the dogs going completely berserk, Tyson attacking the laptop, now on the floor, with surprising ferocity…

And Jethro Gibbs sat, wincing, eyes closed, and feeling more than a little fed up and sorry for himself.

He was about to reboot Tyson, when the doorbell rang.


	8. Reprieve and Gratitude

**Chapter 8 – Reprieve and Gratitude**

"So, Boss, you're saying that the… _dog_ ate your computer?" Timothy McGee bit down hard on his tongue as he stared at the damaged laptop . He was caught somewhere in the middle of disbelief, dismay, and insane, uncontrollable laughter. If any one word could ever be used to describe Tim McGee, "suicidal" most definitely wasn't it.

"Boss, I'm good – I'm not _this_ good. There's only so much I can fix. You're just gonna have to requisition a new one. Sorry," he said, shrugging. He shrunk back slightly at the death glare that Gibbs was firing at him.

"So, sounds like Meredith arrived just in time," Tony observed carefully.

Gibbs nodded, grunting slightly. He would really rather not talk about his afternoon with Ducky's mother. The old Medical Examiner was like almost like an uncle to him. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Ducky.

No, scratch that.

There was one thing he would no longer do for Ducky.

He thought he'd weep with relief when he'd opened the door, and there stood Jimmy Palmer, with an older woman standing at his side.

"Agent Gibbs, this is Meredith. She's a home care nurse. Dr. Mallard just hi…"

Jimmy's words were cut off when Gibbs grabbed the woman's arm and rather unceremoniously dragged her into the house. She was shocked when he planted a very large, very grateful kiss on her cheek. He grasped her hands and gave them a desperate squeeze of gratitude.

"You're an angel, whoever you are. Thank you. Dinner's in the oven. Ducky's due home in an hour. Dishes are done, you just need to dish up dinner when it's ready." Meredith stared in disbelief at Gibbs, then glanced with slight dismay over at Jimmy.

"It's been a stressful week, Meredith," the young morgue assistant said. The woman simply nodded. "I see," she said. "Well, point me to the kitchen then, Agent Gibbs."

Jimmy looked at Gibbs when he turned to him and said, "I can go now after this, right?" Jimmy smiled warmly and nodded. "Consider yourself paroled. Time off for good behaviour."

Gibbs had to stop himself from giggling, as he let Meredith into the house, waving Jimmy to follow them.

………………………………………………………………………………

"So, the reason I have gathered all of you here," Ducky said, once the entire team had assembled in autopsy, "was to thank you all for everything you have done for myself and Mother this week. I know how difficult she can be at times, and you have all truly gone above and beyond. It is true, what they say about friends in need."

Abby glanced at Ziva, and the two women shared a small smile. McGee and Tony gave each other a look normally reserved for old soldiers who had seen and survived battle together. Gibbs smiled slightly at Jimmy, who really had no idea at all what Dr. Mallard was up to. Hell, Jimmy was just glad the team was still speaking to him, after his suggestion had come to rather startling and unexpected fruition. Well, it wasn't like he'd held a gun to their heads. Even if he'd had one, it wouldn't have been necessary. They all felt the same way about Ducky. He was their patriarch, of sorts. If one could say that it was Gibbs who kept the team together – then it was Ducky who kept Gibbs together.

A slight look of alarm passed over everyone's faces, as Ducky said, "So I would like to invite you all to dinner tomorrow night."

"Um, I have some reports I need to finish. You know how lazy I can be sometimes," Tony said hastily, with a small self-deprecating laugh, as he headed for the door. McGee stared after him. "I have a computer in Abby's lab that I have to… um… retrofit with a… er… flux… capacitor…" he dashed after Tony, and when he'd caught up with him, the senior agent whispered to him, "80's movie reference. I'm impressed, Probie." He winked at his younger colleague as the two men got the hell out of Dodge.

"Oh, I'd better go make sure McGee retrofits the right… um... computer with the right model of… er… flux… uh… seeya Duckman!" Abby dashed out of the morgue without much further adieu.

"Oh, Gibbs, I think maybe, perhaps you need to review my report from yesterday… you know how confused my English can be sometimes," Ziva said, as she gave their leader a desperate look. She followed Abby out hastily.

"Well, you were going to make reservations at a restaurant, weren't you, Sir?" Jimmy said suddenly, as he remembered what the doctor had told him earlier, right after he'd hired Meredith. Jimmy shook his head and rolled his green eyes slightly. Haste makes waste – and the entire team had just wasted a perfectly good free meal.

"Why, yes, Mr. Palmer, I was. Well, perhaps I'll get a chance to fill them in on the details later. In the meantime, we have work to do here, my boy."

Gibbs took the hint, and chuckled softly to himself as he, too, headed out of the morgue.


End file.
